


Of Men & Monsters

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: amnesiac!Loki, in which there is a lot of eyebrow quirking, mentions of triggering content, timeline? Pfft, to be elaborated upon when we get there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't talk about it. Ever.</p>
<p>That's the beauty of the Winchesters, masters of internalizing the important things.<br/>----</p>
<p>In which Loki finds the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _He starts forward again only to be stopped with the force akin to a wall. He jerks back, shoulders going rigid as he can feel fingers gripping tight against his upper arms, blunt nails digging in to the fabric of his shirt._

Screeching and Screeching and Screeching.

Scratching, clawing, wracking, wallowing.

_GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT._

"Ohgodplea—"

It was a short, sharp exhale of breath through gritted teeth; it could've been mistaken for a bitten off sigh were it not for the spurt of anguish that was undeniably and intricately braided through like silk. He slid pale, tremblingly elegant fingers into the neck of his charcoal jumper, twining his appendages between the thick fabric and the pale green t-shirt beneath, applying a small amount of pressure. Running his tongue along his bottom lip, he winced a bit, skin pulling tight in the corners of his eyes.

Deep breath.

Exhale.

_Lather, rinse, repeat._

Crimson edged down his middle finger, creating thick, runny bands on either side of the engraved ring he wore religiously, a sliver of silver amidst pooling blackness, _dripping, dripping, dripping._

From his fingertips it slides and spirals against his pale flesh as though it were mapping out the soft blue of the veins below, winding down his forearm until it met and seeped in to the fabric bunched up at his elbows, soaking and staining and leaving unforgettable traces.

Deep breath.

Not deep enough. Try again.

Again.

It rattled around in his ribcage like moths against lamplight. He coughed to try and chase the bugs away, only to frenzy them further. Liquid thick in his throat, unnerving. He carefully spied the too dark area that surrounded him. Light crept in slim streams, breaking through the cracks and holes in the structure, pooling in unhelpful puddles just out of reach.

One foot in front of the other.

Step. _Hesitatesalwayshesitatescan'twillhimselftomove._ Step.

He can feel it in his bones, a tremor that starts in his left ankle. It's rhythmic, in time to the boisterous – _always loud, how do they do stealth?_ – engine that creeps ever closer. _Blu-dub-a Blu-dub-a Blu-dub-a._

He again tries to proceed forward, one foot in front of the other. Left shoe firmly planted in the dust and filth below, as if on cue, he shudders and slinks ungracefully to the floor to the sound of a boot against feeble wooden barriers.

_"LOKI?!"_

And the sound is clear; a short, sharp, authoritative, over-annunciated _Low-key_ that echoes despite the wooden exterior of the building. And he knows it's serious. He knows it's serious because of the growl of fear shrouded in the name. Knows it's serious because of the use of _his_ name. Not a nickname. _His name._

And they came looking for him. They _came looking for him._ Came looking for _him._

He pressed his hands against the dirt and grain and gravel to push himself up; to right his posture; only to stumble again and land heavily on his knees with somewhere between a grunt and a muffled sob passing through his thin lips. Hair spilled around his face in inky strands, obscuring his already blurry vision. Fever-bright, poison green eyes languidly scanned around the room, pinprick black pupils too constricted to properly see anything but billowy figures and shades of black and gray.

It was only as his body swayed a bit, head lolling lightly, that he was aware of the saline streams that had stained his cheeks, creating refreshing, clean rivers through the grime and gore that covered his face, pooling just lightly at the corner of his mouth. Through slightly parted lips the tip of his pink, pink tongue pushed through, dipping half-consciously in the now translucent liquid. The taste was startlingly unfamiliar, a salty-sweetness that he didn't particularly care for.

He starts forward again only to be stopped with the force akin to a wall. He jerks back, shoulders going rigid as he can feel fingers gripping tight against his upper arms, blunt nails digging in to the fabric of his shirt.

"Holy hell—"

"—Loki."

The voices sounded in tandem, complimentary octaves echoing distantly in his cochlea.

Deep breath.

Exhale.

It's a slow blink, but a blink none the less. He moves his head to try and pinpoint the source of the noise, only to have his neck fail him as though made of some sort of rubber compound, lulling to the side and slightly back.

"That's a lot of blood –"

"—LOKI." _(Low—keeey.)_

A slight, but equally as aggressive shake followed by snap of fingers grabs the boy's attention, and he struggles to focus on the sandy haired man in front of him, words from behind his form registering in his ears. His brows knit together slightly as sharp emerald irises move from the snapping fingers to the steel-grey eyes staring back at him. He works his jaw a bit.

_Screeching and Screeching and Screeching._

_Scratching, clawing, wracking, wallowing._

_GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT._

_"Ohgodplea—"_

"'s not mine." His words run together, accented by broken syllables, coming out more like _ssssnot-my-ne._ A lazy, tired, self-depreciating smirk pulls absently at the corner of his lips, twitching them up on the right and he can feel the once-stationary drip of tears that had pooled there tickle their way down his chin. "Not most of it."

_imamonsterimamonsterimamonst erimamonster._

"Fuck."

\----------

They don't talk about it. Ever.

That's the beauty of the Winchesters, masters of internalizing the important things.

Loki feigns ignorance; he claims he can't remember.

They know better. He knows they know better, and he knows that they know he knows that.

But if it ever comes up, Loki doesn't remember.


	2. He dreams in color, he dreams in red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Most startling of all, however, was when he was swiftly and sharply reminded of the fact that he doesn't know this kid; reminded of the fact that they found this kid in the middle of the New Mexican desert._

To Dean, Loki had been a younger brother, a nephew, a son, a cousin, and, on one occasion, in Maine, the love-child product of himself and Sam (a _terrible_ hunt that spiraled _terribly_ out of control based on the whims and misconceptions of others, and, perhaps, topped the **_NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED_** list that they all knew – but never mentioned – Dean kept on a yellow-papered notepad tucked between the driver's seat and the floorboard).

Sometimes, when he looks at the kid – and a kid he is, just barely eighteen– he is reminded of Sam. He has the same sort of book smarts and natural-born intellect that Dean had always ~~_envied_~~ found unnecessary when one could easily survive on instinct and reflex, and a penchant for eating healthy, even if there's goddamn bacon-wrapped glory between two sesame seed buns cradled in aluminum foil waiting for them on the table. But it's more than that. There's that look of ruined innocence that sparkles just faintly in their eyes at the mention of every hunt; of every job. They share that constant push to prove themselves as more than they are, to show the world that they're more than just the younger brother or the runt of the litter; more than just the sidekick – that they can be the heroes too.

Then there are times when he looks at him, and is reminded of himself, too. And he would say that scares him, if he were to be so open about things. The swift, brutal mentality when entrapped, the do-or-die, fight-or-flight abrasiveness that could take over at any moment. Hiding behind the snark and the sass and the not-funny jokes. He recognized that look of instinctual protectiveness – never mind how much younger Loki was comparatively.

Most startling of all, however, was when he was swiftly and sharply reminded of the fact that he _doesn't know this kid;_ reminded of the fact that they _found this kid_ in the middle of the New Mexican desert. The complete and utter control of emotions around absolutely everyone (including himself and Sam); the control that kept his face a blank mask of impassivity, save for an occasional quirk of the lips or brow. The feral ferocity that engulfed his eyes that unnerved Dean. It terrified him that a kid could even show something that took him twenty-eight years and two trips to other planes of existence (read: hell and purgatory) to obtain.

When Dean wakes up, it's to find the kid already awake atop his pile of blankets on the floor (on the floor because, one, he refuses to sleep on the motel mattresses, _like the floor is so much more sanitary_ , Dean thinks, and two, because it costs extra to get those little trundle beds). Dean, carefully pretending to still be asleep, can clearly hear Loki's fingers slowly clenching and unclenching against the scratchy hotel blankets. He can hear the anxious, unsteady, uneven breaths fill the void in the hotel room, carefully drowning out Sam's quiet snoring.

And he wonders.

Wonders what could've gotten the kid so worked up in the last few hours. Because Dean was excited as hell, and let everybody know. He'd never been to New York (well, Manhattan, or any other major city, because he'd been in some dense forest on the verge of Canada once, when he was younger) before, and when they'd arrived just six hours prior, he was like a goddamn fat kid at an all-you-can-eat buffet. For free. _Yeah._

Sam would make fun of his unadulterated glee, but he was just the same way. He was once more reduced to that slightly chubby twelve year old ( _"Sammy"_ ) in awe of his surroundings. He wanted to go to the Brooklyn Museum of Art ("Sam, that's like half an hour away." "That's not that far!" "In _NEW YORK_ traffic. It could take days!") and the Museum of Modern Art ("Seriously?") **_and_** the Metropolitan Museum of Art ("It's literally within walking distance!" "Sam, quit. Seriously.")

And he wonders.

Wonders, because despite Dean and Sam's over excited road-trip babble, Loki never said a word. He didn't partake in the hoarding of gas station snack foods, nor did he much partake in the eating of. The entire way from Yellow Springs, O- _fucking_ -hio(goddamn shifters), Loki had curled up in the back seat of the Impala and pretended to be asleep. Pretended, he knows, because, of the limited times he'd actually managed to stumble across a sleeping Loki, he knew the kid shifted around a lot in his sleep, as was not the case when he was still as stone against the leather interior, back facing the rearview mirror.

And then when they'd gotten their little hotel room (thank god for credit card fraud), he just piled up blankets and pillows until his cat-bed was to his liking, and flopped down, facing away from the brothers, and stayed that way for the rest of the evening. That was it.

Until now.

And now, still feigning sleep, he can hear scratching. Not the kind that should be alarming, but a softer, more precise and dictated sort of scrawling that is the direct product of pen on paper on wooden desk. Or, he supposed, given the furnishings in the room, pen on paper on dresser. It's not frantic, not really, if but a little quickly written, but still very controlled. He could hear the sliding of paper across the top of the dresser, and then there was momentary silence before the door was opened and closed, quietly, deliberately, knowing (thinking) the brothers were still asleep.

Dean waited. Took a deep breath, held it until ten, then released it with gust and pushed himself up and out of bed on to the floor in one swift motion. Running a hand over his face, lingering over his lips to cover a yawn, the man made his way towards the now abandoned cat-bed, towards where he could see the slightly torn line paper barely hanging over the edge of the dresser. Using his thumb and forefinger, he grasped the paper and pulled it towards him, eying the slightly slanted (indicative of left handed individuals), but still tidy and almost decorative handwriting, he pulled the page tight, straightening out some of the wrinkles.

_Gone out for a walk._

_Be back –_  
\----------

Loki, admittedly, doesn't remember much of anything. Not like everybody else does, anyway. Where others might recall mental images or certain sounds, Loki can only recall in feelings and emotion. When one might remember, say, a particular trip to the lake, wherein little Bobby learned to swim, most would remember the look on little Bobby's face, but the raven-haired male would only be able to feel the little Bobby's apprehension. He couldn't _see_ memories, but he could _feel_ them.

And the Colors.

They were worse when he was dreaming, but still present in his waking state; blurs of color like watercolor paint on a black canvas. They came in splashes and drips and whirls and swatches, sometimes in multiples, sometimes singular. They fought viciously and danced a maddening waltz in his mind. Sometimes the colors would accompany the emotion brought about by memory, and sometimes they would be triggered on their own, in place of a distinct emotion, or a standout amongst the cacophony of them.

That's what his life was like.

His life before Puente Antiguo.

Any memories before the last two years are recalled in hazes of colored light and blinding emotion.

It's difficult not having a sixteen year chunk of your life. It's difficult having emotions triggered for no determinable reason other than 'something must have happened but you don't remember it.' It was like being blind, and it left an unidentified ache in his chest cavity that he yearned to be rid of.

If he were to be so honest (he usually wasn't), Loki would admit he wasn't entirely sure where he was wandering to. It's not like he had a map of New York memorized or anything. He just couldn't stand being stagnant in that hotel room any longer. Since the initial organization of the trip to New York, Loki had been finding it harder to sleep, and it seemed the closer they got, the more intense the swatches and swirls of colors had gotten; the more eclectic and intensified their movements had become. The closer they got to New York the more he could feel a swell of anger and rage and hatred and sadness and regret and fear, and he didn't understand; he couldn't understand, and it made him uncomfortable.

He let out a soft stream of air, watching as it made itself known in a thin cloud, quickly dissipating around him as he progressed forward. His slightly-too-big forest green sweater was warm, but not enough to keep all of the chill away from his skin, allowing goose bumps to rise on his forearms, and subsequently causing Loki to run his nimble piano-player's fingers along the cloth in hopes of inspiring a little warmth via friction. It probably didn't help much that his long hair was swept back in a messy knot that rested at the base of his skull, strands of freed ebony hair flitting this way and that in the cold spurts of wind, but not enough hair down to keep his neck warm.

The city itself seemed to be as alive as ever, bustling with as much gusto as it could muster. People flooded the streets, creating a constant ebb and flow of civilians like an ocean tide. The streets were littered with bright yellow taxi cabs and sleek, black Lexus', leaving Loki a lone green blob amidst the flashing red and blue neon signs and slim, grey buildings. Standing out as a beacon amidst the newly reconstructed and partially finished buildings, seemingly bringing together all of the newly repaved roads and still semi-busted sidewalks, was the reformed Stark Tower, fluorescent "A" like a vigil candle's flame, casting its light on all of New York, eerily reflecting off of the coal glass of the windows against the cool, soft grey winter sky.

The mere sight of it made Loki bristle with a mixture of pride and loss and a twinge of pain; it left an aching cavity somewhere near his right atrium, causing his thin lips to pull down in a frown, dark brows creasing just barely in the middle as his eyes locked with the neon letter. He rubbed his fingers absently across the left side of his chest (a subconscious habit he'd had since he could recall), as if it would make the feeling go away.

He stared just a bit longer, as though transfixed on the object, pupils blown wide and breath coming short as it seemed the whole world tunneled into that one, insignificant letter. It was overlaid with translucent strokes of red and gold flitting about, and a heavy green swatch pounding like a heartbeat.

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

And he could feel it bounding around, pounding on his chest and laboring his breathing. He could see the deep green flitting and flickering with a much lighter, more emerald color, and a gold he wasn't sure was associated with the crimson.

"Hey, kid, you alright?"

It took someone bumping in to his shoulder before he finally tore his eyes away, averting them to the pale cement of the sidewalk below, still rubbing at his chest, until his ring got caught on the fabric and he realized what he was doing. He glanced back up at the speaker, giving a soft, nervous tilt of the lips that could've been taken as a smile.

"Yeah…."

The two stood there staring at eachother for a moment. Loki and the stranger. Green in to crystal blue. ( _flat blue and green and gold flitting and fighting and dancing_ ). The raven haired male watched the muscles twitch in the sandy haired man's jaw, as if he was irritated or itching to say something, but then he just offered up a small smile and a nod, and then turned to continue his way down the street, away from Loki, who watched with a curious sort of disinterest before turning back around to head back to his own hotel room.  
\----------

Dean could feel his eyebrow curl in frustration when Loki finally made his way back in to the hotel room, gingerly shutting the door behind him.

"Glad you made it back in one piece, princess."

Loki turned around slowly, calculatingly; his eyes narrowed a fraction at the elder Winchester. He worked his jaw a bit, sliding his tongue around the soft palate of his mouth as he searched for the right words. It was a well known fact Dean had a bit of a temper, and it didn't discriminate.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he finally asked, his own brow arching. His poison green eyes darted quickly to the note he left, taking it in to account that it had been moved, and therefore, read.

Dean simply clicked his tongue, removing himself from where he was positioned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest defensively. Loki made note of Sam in the background trying, and failing, to suppress a grin at his older brother's antics. The raven haired male's left eyebrow joined the other towards the middle of his forehead, awaiting an answer. "I have a phone," he finally said, sliding the device out of his pocket and waving it at Dean for emphasis.

"I called," Dean said, after a moment of silence and staring had stretched on, "five times. And you didn't answer any of them." There was a clip to his voice that had Sam raising his brow a bit, even if he did understand what Dean was getting at. He tended to hide his outright worry with a façade of annoyance and attitude. Sam knew that Loki knew this too.

Loki blinked. Once. Then twice, and averted his eyes to his phone, his brows coming slightly together in the middle as he examined the screen. It had a flashing _5 missed calls_ taunting him. He hadn't even noticed. Hadn't felt his phone against his hip, let alone heard the ringtone. He chewed on the inside of his cheek lightly, shoving the mobile back in to his pocket. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Dean just clicked his tongue again, and nodded. "We're late." He scooped the Impala's keys off of the nightstand, jingling them lightly to make sure he had everyone's attention. "We were supposed to meet Nick fifteen minutes ago."

"Nick?"

"He's this ass—"

"One of dad's old war buddies," Sam interjected, shooting an indeterminable look at his older brother, striding towards the door. "He's the one that called us to New York in the first place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own The Avengers, Supernatural, or the Pearl Jam lyrics I butcherd(:


	3. goshawk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pale, flat blue abruptly cut off, gone, erased with a splash of water.
> 
>  
> 
> _Where have you gone, little goshawk?_

“…uh.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, what’s that?” Dean glanced over his shoulder, a smug smile playing on his lips. “Finally at a loss for words, Lokster?”

_(Loke-sterrrrrr)_

The raven haired individual rolled his eyes, tilting his head away from the playful gaze as he picked a bit at the hem of his forest green sweater, not liking his hands to be idle. “I just don’t understand why we’re – ” His  emerald eyes glanced upwards, squinting as the too-white winter clouds danced their way across the pallid sky before broadly gesturing at the steely-grey building from tip to ground, “— _here_.” He curled a dark brow, once more returning his gemstone irises to Dean’s dusky hazel, resembling more of a jasper stone, with green overpowering the flecks of muddy brown, making his eyes often appear brighter, and easier to read. “I thought we were visiting one of your father’s _war buddies_ …”

“I feel like there’s a stereotype in there somewhere…”

“Stereotypes _are_ born of a factual basis, Dean.” Loki’s face didn’t move, save for a telling twitch at the corner of his thin lips. His dark brows rose a bit, awaiting an explanation from the elder man.

Sam let out a soft sigh, shaking his head a bit, the slight movement of the dirt-colored strands reminding Loki of puppy ears. The middle of the three advanced forward, stepping in front of Dean, and pushed his way in to the building, holding the door slightly ajar to give the other two the hint to follow. Loki hesitated for a moment, rolling his lips a bit as he eyed the interior of the building, but followed closely behind the brothers, glancing behind his shoulder as the door clicked shut.

The interior of the building was neutral and bland. The tiles were a deep brown speckled beige color, extending to the off-white colored walls. There was a wall composed of entirely floor-to-ceiling length windows, though they were tinted a grey color, allowing only dim light to wash over the flooring, providing a look of plasticized sand. In the middle of the room was a circular help desk, an off-white accented with a wooden desktop, coal colored computer monitors just barely peeking out. There were four women behind the desk, Loki noted, one facing in each direction, and each one with a different hair color – brunette, golden, fiery red, and a one-toned matte black – solidifying the shady, sci-fi feel. The blonde facing them reached up, placing slender fingers against her headset, whispering something, ruby painted lips parting to expose bleached-white teeth in a polite smile. Loki did not return it. The only semblance of real life were accentual paintings on the walls, each one a flurry of abstract colors, blues and greens and reds and mixtures of, swirling and zig-zagging across various sized canvases, making it difficult for the young man to focus on a specific color.

Drawing his eye towards a doorway just in the corner was a middle aged man in a sharp, flat black, clean-cut suit. He was shorter than Loki, and by default, Sam, but came up at around the same height as Dean, if a few inches taller. His slight smile drew Loki’s attention away from his thinning brown hair and instead towards the strained laugh lines that decorated the edges of his lips and eyes. Those same stormy grey irises slid their way over towards Loki, examining him lightly, causing his smile to take an almost secretive tone and making the raven-haired male bristle a bit. He clasped his hands behind his back as he approached the three, his gaze seeming to encompass all of them.

“Please excuse the decorating. Functionality takes precedence over appearance…” His eyes roamed once over Dean from head to toe, carrying a sort of mirth with them. “I’m sure you understand.”

Loki had to hold back a snort as he watched Dean bristle, as if he had a witty retort in which to throw back at the other. Before Dean had a chance to embarrass himself, the other man had turned and began to walk away, to lead the small group towards a door just to the left corner of the room. “This way, please,” he beckoned, not bothering to turn around. They stopped only momentarily so that he could swipe a key card, a small, square light flashing neon green before Loki could hear the tumblers in the locks moving, allowing the door to be opened.

The hallways, if anything, were more unnatural than the lobby, and Loki was already itching to be out of the place. The blank, emptiness of it had his skin crawling, blunt nails digging in to his forearms and leaving pink crescents along the expanse of pale flesh.

_________

He was pretty sure that the sun was showing today just to piss him off.

It was a conspiracy. It had to be. The universe was clearly out to take him down one reflective glare at a time.

Utilizing the power that was his swivel chair, the twenty-one year old turned away from the not-currently-tinted (thanks, crazy Norse bastard) windows, adjusting the Wayfarers that sat on his nose, and then slid his fingers through his already disheveled hair, shaggy brown locks sticking up in a rather undignified manner. He lazily eyed the archer and the assassin across the table, who were here before he was (which was, by Stark Standards, pretty _fucking_ early) before curling a brow up at the others who were filing in, starting with Steve, who was way too chipper for this shit, and followed closely by Thor the _Thunderer_ , and then, a few minutes later, a groggy Bruce, styrofoam cup of coffee held to his chest like a life source as he shuffled to find a seat at the table, drawing an amused smirk from Tony.

There was, however, most notably, no Fury to be seen.

Which irked Tony. Perhaps more than the situation really warranted, but Fury called this meeting and Tony Stark had more important things to do with his life. Like sleep. He had been out the night before for Happy’s bachelor party, and hadn’t actually made it back to the tower until a few hours ago. So he was tired, and, consequently, a little cranky.

Spreading his fingers apart, he slid his hands across the grainy surface of the table, leaning forward and letting out a very put upon sigh, bringing everyone’s eyes to him. He eyed them over the top of his sunglasses, a shit-eating grin finding its natural place on his lips, and he slid back in his chair, crossing his arms and muting out the blue-white glow of the arc-reactor, raising his brows in a mock innocent expression, as if to ask what ever the matter could be.

Clint petulantly rolled his eyes, letting out a little huff at the engineer and then sweeping his grey gaze over the rest of the small crowd, lips moving slightly, as if doing a headcount. His eyes landed on the firey-red assassin, and he pursed his lips a bit, watching as she delicately lifted a perfectly shaped brow in his direction.

“Where’s Fury?” he questioned, a bit of irritation seeping through his voice.

Natasha simply shrugged, unconcerned, as she glanced back down at her nails, and then again to the room at large.   

Tony pouted a bit. “You would think if he called the meeting he could at least be bothered to show up…” He uncrossed his arms, but allowed his right hand to stay placed on the arc reactor, drumming an indecipherable beat, the slight clinks filling up the empty air.

“He had a little damage control to do after the last skirmish with Doom. Public relations.”

“This early in the morning?” Tony asked, both brows creeping up to his hairline as his chocolate irises focused on the redhead.

“There’s more than one timezone in the world, Tony Stark, and not everyone operates on _yours_.” Her back straightened a bit as she crossed her legs, eyes darting towards the large wooden door to her left. “Coulson is here,” she announced, her brow lifting a bit. “With company.”

_________

There was a brief pause as the suited man stopped to swipe his card at the entrance of the conference room doors. They were large and rather indistinct, much like everything else had been for the past twenty floors and then again in the nondescript elevator ride.

And it was driving Loki mad.

Nothingness.

No color.

No texture.

No life.

_Nothingnothingnothingnothing._

And then, as the beep indicated they were cleared for entry, as the square flashed neon green and the tumblers slowly clinked and ground and groaned, as the doors opened, everything hit in a wave, threatening to knock the raven haired male to his knees as everything seemed to assault.

Where an absence had flowed through his veins there was suddenly _greengreengreen_ and _redandroyalblueandpurpleandgoldandblack_ and _painhurtwantbetrayallosslosslosslossloss._

He swallowed hard, moving slowly, head ducked as emerald bore in to the off-white tiles, following absently behind the elder Winchesters.

Pale, flat blue drawing him in.

Familiarity, it cried.

Welcome back, it hissed.

 _Bringer_ , it moaned.

Pale, flat blue in a line, following green and gold with purpose across the black expanse of canvas.

Pale, flat blue struggling, flickering, fighting, blinking in and out of existence.

Pale, flat blue abruptly cut off, gone, erased with a splash of water.

_Where have you gone, little goshawk?_

With a sharp, short _twang_ , his foggy and unfocused mind is suddenly and sharply cleared, a pulse of pain ringing from within, blipping like a radar from his shoulder, and he grits his teeth, a low growl making itself comfortable in the base of his throat as unnaturally bright, poison green slowly tread to the epicenter of the sharp spurts of pain trailing across his pectoral.

There is a sudden eruption of commotion around him. He can recognize the gravely tenors that belong to the brother hunters, and a female’s calm, even voice cutting sharply through the frantic conversation. There’s a hand on his shoulder, but he jerks away from the touch instinctively, stumbling a bit in the direction of one of the pale walls.

He can hear the sound of skin colliding, knuckle to knuckle to shoulder to ribs. There’s screaming and accusations and confrontations and a brutally slamming door.

He can hear unfamiliar, dulcet tones directed towards him, coming through like fuzzy static on a radio.

But the only thing he can be bothered to feel, as he hunches forward and grits his teeth, grunting as he snaps the tip of the arrow protruding through his shoulder, gripping the shaft and quickly removing it from the wound, is inexplicable loss ( _little goshawk_ ) and a quiet rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short(er than normal) chapter. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, etc...  
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments and love! (:


	4. we'll hide the bodies on the ride home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki likes to think, if he’d raised his voice a bit more, the pulsating vein in the other man’s temple would’ve ruptured.

Suddenly Sam is there, chocolate strands of hair falling softly out of their position of being tucked behind his ears. His brows are furrowed lightly in the middle, causing a slight crease in his forehead, hazel eyes leaning ever towards brown scanning him meticulously.

Loki lulls his head to the side a bit to avoid the gaze, eying the now-broken arrow and trying to ignore the fact that he just snapped the carbon-graphite shaft. Adrenaline, he tells himself.

He hisses and jerks his body a bit as pressure is applied to the wound, pressing the now sticky-wet fabric against the opened flesh, bringing his poison green gaze sharply back to the man in front of him.

“Sorry,” he hears Sam mumble, but doesn’t pay much mind.

Loki pushes away from the wall he’s leaning on, eyes sliding over to Sam as he grimaces, smirking a bit at what he assumes is probably a bloody spot on the wall. He crosses his arms about his chest, refraining from groaning against the uncomfortable sensation, his brow curling lightly as the dark complexioned man makes his appearance. He’s all dark skin and darker clothing, his leather jacket creaking lightly as he folds his hands behinds his back. He wears a mask of nonchalance, but Loki can see in his eye (the eyepatch was overkill, he thinks) that he’s anything but. His back is straight and his shoulders tense, mouth in a grim line that twitches upwards slightly as he meets Loki’s stare.

“Are we all done acting like children here?” he asks, gaze never wavering from Loki’s.

Loki bristles, back straightening taut as he tilts his head mockingly to the side. “We?” he asks incredulously.

The other raises a brow, wrinkling his forehead and pushing back the skin of his bald head slightly. Loki’s lips lift in to a sneer reactively.

“ _We_ aren’t acting like children. It’s _your_ damn archer that doesn’t have any impulse control.”

“He was only following protocol,” the other dismisses.

“Fuckin’ top notch protocol there, _Patches_.”

“He. Was. Following—”

“—You can’t tell me I looked hostile—”

“—Barton is one of our best—”

“—I wasn’t posing any kind of threat—”

“—top field agent—”

“—he’s clearly not in any position—”

“—and has been working to keep little shits like you—”

“—until he fucking shot me, for no reason—”

“—ever since the Chitauri—”

“—maybe he shouldn’t have weaponry—”

At this point Loki was matching him step for step, inching ever closer to one another in slow, measured steps. Loki’s light, calculated steps to the other’s domineering, unmistakable stomps. The sounds echoed against the tiled floor and rang a cacophonous sound in Loki’s ears over the white noise of the two trying to talk over one another, nothing really being heard or said.

“Are you trying to insinuate something?”

Fury’s barking voice brought Loki to halt, peering down at the other over his nose. His pale lips pulled back at his teeth, a feral act more resembling something lupine than human as his voice dropped low, low, _low._ “I _suggest_ keeping your dogs on a tighter leash,” he snapped, eyes shining like sinister emeralds.

The back of a hand was pressed on to his chest, and his eyes darted down at the perpetrator, scanning up the digits, over the blackened elephant hair bracelet and up the tanned forearm, met with a thin denim covered biceps and shoulder, and up to concerned jasper-stone eyes, sandy brows furrowed.

 _Dean_ , he registers after a moment.

“Do you have somewhere we could take him to get—” and the hand is moved away from where it was pressed against his sternum, gesturing at the still bleeding wound “—that checked out?” Dean’s almost gravelly voice is a lovely reprieve from the stern and stubborn and smooth that had been filling up the corners of the room to the point of bursting just moments before.

Loki likes to think, if he’d raised his voice a bit more, the pulsating vein in the other man’s temple would’ve ruptured.

The dark skinned man takes a deep breath, single mud colored iris flitting towards the elder brother. “Coulson will show you to it.” With a flick of his wrist, he turns, facing away from the two, missing the way Dean’s eyes narrow just slightly at him.

Loki bares his teeth once more as Dean applies a firm grip to his shoulder, pulling him away. The elder brother eyes Sam, who in turn nods as he silently makes his way towards an empty chair at the conference table.

_________

There is a small cough that passes through Bruce’s lips as the door clicks shut, silent and calm amongst the tension that had quickly built in the room.

Tony leaned forward, arms crossed as his elbows connected with the table, a sleazy grin worming its way across his features as an eyebrow made itself seen high above his Wayfarers. “Feisty.”

And he was impressed that absolutely everybody in the room could manage to give him the same deadpan expression. There should be an award for that.

Tony easily slid down in to his chair, crossing his arms across his chest as a small pout pushed his bottom lip out just barely.

There is a moment of pure silence; a beat in which an uncomfortable wave washes over the inhabitants of the room and threatens to drown them awaiting their next move.

Bruce again clears his throat.

Tony sinks further in to his chair, wanting to die of sunlight and awkward and silence and throat clearing.

“So why were we called here for this?”

It’s the younger Winchester breaking the silence.

Tony’s pretty sure he could kiss him.

Fury’s gaze meets that of the hunters for a moment, a swift movement of his fingers bringing a large screen in to the view of all.

Sam’s brows furrow slightly as the lights dim, illuminating a single image. It’s almost hard to decipher, what with the brightness of the image. He glances around the room, taking in the various expressions of those around him, ranging from confusion, to boredom to, on the large blonde adjacent from him, disgust.

He turns his view back to the image, squinting a bit at the colossal cobalt creature.

Fury’s lips twitch slightly.

“Frost giants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter seems a bit...abrupt?  
> oh well.  
> hope you enjoy.
> 
> as always, i don't own anything marvel or any of their affiliates, or blue october.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam blinks. 

Once. Twice. 

A furrowing of his brows, and he turns to face Nick directly. “So, what exactly does this have to do with us?”

Nick smirks, the action oddly unbecoming on the man, and he brings his hands from behind his back to rest on the back of a nearby chair. “I brought you and your brother here because you have experience with this kind of thing.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, a disbelieving smirk playing on his own features as he gives a tentative glance around the room with an accompanying snort. “You have a room full of people who fought an alien invasion two years ago. I mean, they continually fight these…these super-powered….villains. I’m not sure what makes me, my brother or Loki more qualified than that.”

“You and your brother have a special kind of skill- and mind-set that the team could use on this particular project.”

Sam doesn’t miss the way that Loki is carefully omitted. He does, however, dismiss it. After all, they probably weren’t expecting him. What he does dwell on, however, after he has given a hum of interest and consent, is that they were brought here specifically for their moral ambiguity. They were called in because the expected moral high ground assumingly adopted by the ‘hero’ community clashes heavily with this job. In other words, this would be a shit-storm, because nobody is actually sure what is up or down. 

It’s a regular Tuesday. 

Maybe not _Tuesday_ …

The younger Winchester brushes those thoughts aside by sliding fingers through his shaggy hair. He turns his body resolutely forward, relaxing his stance a bit as he curls a brow at Fury. “So, what do we have on…frost giants?”   
_________  
It’s blank.

White walls and white tiles and white ceiling with fluorescent lights that release the palest of yellow glows, serving to brighten the space and emphasize the lack. 

He moves slowly, eyes half lidded as he trails behind the elder Winchester and the ominous suited man dubbed Coulson. His right arm is crossed against his chest, hand of the same denomination pressing against the bleeding hole in the opposite shoulder, applying pressure just this side of uncomfortable. The blood that stains his clothing seeps out in a purplish hue against the forest green fabric, and Loki half-frowns at it, knowing that he’s going to have to throw this shirt out now.

He’s long since given up trying to keep pace with either of the elder men, instead trudging behind at a tragically lethargic pace, pain pulsing with each beat of his crimson heart. It beats under his flesh unnervingly, his fingers digging in simply to give his body something else to focus on.

There’s a sort of whisper that brushes past his cochlea, and Loki’s shuffling stops, fever bright irises scanning the empty hallway quickly before he takes a deep breath to continue forward.

Goshawk.

He turns, to once more be greeted with an assault of that oddly familiar pale, flat blue color. The sight makes his chest ache for what he doesn’t know. He draws his pale lips in to a thin line, and casts a glance back at Dean before following the ethereal blue as it spills before him almost like a path.

\---  
In the back of his mind, he knows he should’ve gone to the infirmary. It was a stupid idea to just rush off, and Dean is probably going to be pissed when he finds his way back. The longer he follows the pale blue splash, the more he can feel the ache build up in the threshold of his ribs, beating fervently against the brittle bone cage. It makes his breathing somewhat difficult, though he doesn’t know why. He continues on against the sensation. 

He has to know.

He’s sprinting now, against the heaviness of his body. He can feel the pale blue slipping from his grasp and it _burns_. He grits his teeth, taking a sharp left down the hallway, chasing like a dog. He’s so close to loosing it, and the though eats at him. Just a little further, and he can catch back up with it.

He’s running, and he knows he must look like a maniac to any bystanders – he just counts himself lucky that none of them have thought to try and stop him. His lungs burn with exertion, and he’s totally lost. He’s taken lefts and rights and gone in circles and down a few floors and in and out of thick metal doors chasing after this illusive splatter of flat, pale blue, only to have it slip further and further away from his fingers until it’s washed out of his sight.

He lets out a frustrated puff of air, wincing a bit as the action jerks his shoulders forward slightly. Loki thinks that, if he were the type to readily do such things, he might cry. That is until –

“Are you following me?” And blue, blue, _blue_. 

The raven haired male stumbles forward, a mumbled ‘goshawk,’ slipping past pale, pale lips. He hadn’t even realized he’d known the word until it comes out, only to be answered in a resounding glare and an accusatory “What did you say?”

The ache in his chest is too large, and he thinks it might be cracking his ribs to find an escape. If he goes much longer, he’s sure it’ll burst through his stomach. It hurts to move, to breathe, to swallow, to blink, but he has to.

“I need—” he stumbles forward a bit, his thighs fluttering with exhaustion, and he can feel his legs give out beneath him. His breath is coming short through his lips, and he tries to take a big enough gulp of the surrounding atmosphere for it to actually reach his lungs, but he thinks he might be suffocating. He coughs weakly, wetly, furrowing his brows as tan hands grip him by his forearms to keep him from falling. “Are you alright, kid?” and the voice is dripping an acid mixture of contempt and concern, and all Loki can do is lean in to it

“I don’t know –” is what he manages, pressing the heels of his hands in to his eyes in an attempt to press away both the frustrated wetness and the drowsiness “—why…”

And he sinks down a little, straining against the other’s hands as a familiar set of heavy boots resounds down the hallway. “’m sorry,” he breathes, weariness creeping in to his bones, allowing his heavy eyelids to droop, closing out the blinding blue that encompassed his vision just moments before. They flutter momentarily as he feels a second set of strong hands place themselves on his body, rushed mumbles through tight lips floating over his head as he finally drifts off.

**Author's Note:**

> Standard, I don't own anything Marvel, Supernatural otherwise affiliated.
> 
> Also posted on FF.net.


End file.
